


This is What I Call Life

by Sherlockxxxx



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Attempted Sexual Assault, Depression, Drug Use, M/M, Minor Violence, Parentlock, Prostitute Sherlock, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-09 01:34:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3231296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlockxxxx/pseuds/Sherlockxxxx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the song What Would You Do by Bastille (originally done by City High) </p><p>Rated E for later chapters yet to be written ;D</p><p>This is my first fic, I self-edited this because I just wanted to get it up I guess! But I have to give a huge thanks to my amazing best friends <a href="http://www.digitalcalamity.tumblr.com">Ellie</a> and <a href="http://www.joyscott13.tumblr.com">Joy</a> for helping me maintain some semblance of confidence. </p><p>And also to <a href="http://www.caitlinisactuallyawritersname.tumblr.com">CaitlinFairchild</a> because your writing is the writing that gave me the courage to start and I hope you don't mind that I'm gifting it to you >.></p><p>This is where I live on tumblr; <a href="http://www.johnlockwonderland.tumblr.com">johnlockwonderland</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wanna Hear a True Story?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CaitlinFairchild](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaitlinFairchild/gifts).



> Triggers/warnings:  
> Non-graphic violence  
> Brief attempted sexual assault  
> Suggested prostitution  
> Implications of depression/suicidal tendencies

Taking a large gulp of his rather warm beer, John looked around and took in his surroundings. The room was packed with people. Some were standing around in groups drinking obscene amounts of alcohol, encouraging others to chug. Some were dancing to the club music echoing throughout the house. That included erratic, drunken flailing, along with people grinding against each other. Rolling his eyes, John downed the rest of his drink and set the empty plastic cup on the side table beside him.  
  
He started weaving through the throng of bodies trying to get to the front door relatively unharmed. He wasn’t entirely successful. Hard shoulders bumped into his, and a few times he almost got knocked right over as inebriated patrons fell into him. A particularly hard shove had him lunging forward, blindly grabbing for something that would help keep him upright. With a small stroke of luck, his fingers found something to wrap around.  
  
“Bloody _hell_ ,” he muttered, gripping tightly.   
  
At the sound of a cough, John looked up to see that he had apparently grabbed hold of someone’s forearm.   
  
And this someone was absolutely _stunning._ He was the epitome of gorgeous. And the moment John looked into the strangers eyes, he realized with a start that he knew him. Disappointingly, the other man didn’t seem to recognize John at all.  
  
John stared at him, unable to form words.  
  
“May I have my arm back?”   
  
John blinked stupidly.  
  
“Are you hard of hearing or is your vocabulary just extremely limited?”   
  
“Sorry, what?”   
  
“I said, may I have my arm back?”   
  
John looked down to see his fingertips still digging into the smooth, pale skin.  
  
“Oh. Uhm. Right. That depends.”  
  
“Excuse me? It’s my _arm._ What does that depend on, exactly?”  
  
“If I let you go, are you going to walk away?”  
  
“It’s highly likely, yes. I’m working and you are currently proving to be a rather irritating obstacle.”  
  
“Working…? It’s a party, what could you poss- Oh. Oh. I see.”  
  
John promptly released the arm he was clutching and took a closer look at the man before him. The man was wearing a tight, fitted purple tee that highlighted his skin tone. And his lean muscles. Can’t forget the muscles, nope, John thought. When the absurdly tall man rubbed at the red marks on his forearm, John was able to see small scars in the crook of his elbow. Track marks. Healed – quite old. No new punctures. The jeans he wore were snug, accentuating a fairly plump backside, and surprisingly thick thighs considering his svelte frame.  
  
“Yes,” the man said and began walking away. He turned back a fraction and shot a chastising look at John. “Do be more careful in the future.”  
  
“Thanks, mate.”  
  
John coughed awkwardly and furrowed his brow in confusion, wondering where the hell ‘ _mate’_ came from. He closed his eyes and shook his head in embarrassment before finding another drink.


	2. Trying to Work for a Buck

For the rest of the night, John watched. He watched as the man slipped cards to partygoers. He watched as random people pulled the man into unoccupied rooms, and he watched them leave disheveled only minutes later. A recurring theme, John noticed, was that the tall, beautiful stranger, never looked satisfied or happy. In fact, he often looked relieved to be rid of his newest customer.  
  
It made John sick. He could almost feel his insides rolling around unhappily, and his heart thumped loudly against his ribcage. John wondered why. No, not about why someone selling their body made him ill – that much was obvious. He wondered what events happened in their life to have this be an option. Perhaps the only option. It made John more than sick; it made him inexplicably sad.   
  
John’s thoughts were interrupted by a commotion nearby. That’s not particularly uncommon for a house party, but what caught John’s attention was the head of dark curls. His eyes widened and he dropped his drink, uncaring of the mess it made. Before he knew it, his legs carried him to the scene.   
  
“Come on, baby, don’t be like that!”   
  
“Leave me alone.”  
  
“Ohhh, I see how it is. You want to put up fight, is that right?”  
  
John saw the wasted Neanderthal push up against the stranger and one of his meaty hands snaked down to the other man’s crotch. And then John saw nothing but red. With a snarl, he barrelled forward and shoved the harasser away.   
  
“Calm down, mate, we’re just having some fun. That’s what he’s here for!”  
  
“Does it _look_ like he’s having fun right now? Fuck off,” John growled.   
  
“Relax. You can have the whore all to yourself.”   
  
John’s nose twitched in anger and he balled his fists. As he pulled his arm back, ready to land a punch, John felt hands close around his bicep, holding him in place.   
  
“Don’t. John, please.”  
  
He lowered his fist, but the man kept holding onto him. Growling, John pulled forward, dragging his acquaintance along. Finally, they made it to the entrance and stepped outside. The quietness surrounding them was almost deafening after hours of electronic beats assaulting their ears. John spotted an empty stone bench in the garden and led them towards it. The stranger sat first, and John opted to sit as close to him as he could. Their thighs and shoulders were touching, the heat between radiating in waves.   
  
“You remember me, then, yeah?” John started  
  
“Yes. You’re hard to forget. You were the football captain. The entire school painstakingly admired you. Frankly, John Watson, I am undeniably stunned you happen to remember me as well.”  
  
“Why the bloody hell wouldn’t I remember you?”  
  
“Why _would_ you?”   
  
“Do you… do you remember in ninth year when you were getting tormented on a daily basis?”  
  
“Of course. They had a nasty habit of setting my things on fire – and on occasion, me.”  
  
“Right. Do you remember how one day it stopped happening?”  
  
“How do _you_ know it stopped?”  
  
“Because, Sherlock Holmes, I am the one who made them stop.”


	3. A Whole Lot's Changed Since I've Seen You Last

Sherlock looked at John, visibly startled by the revelation. Neither of them spoke for what felt like hours. In reality, it was only about three minutes.  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Why what?”  
  
“Don’t be an idiot, John. Why did you take it upon yourself to protect me?”  
  
“Now who’s the idiot? I did it because you didn’t deserve it, you git.”  
  
“And tonight?”  
  
John studied Sherlock’s face for a moment before speaking again.  
  
“You shouldn’t be touched that way if you don’t want to be.”  
  
“I’m a rent boy, John. It’s _my job._ ”  
  
“No. It isn’t. Your _job_ is to be paid for services you provide at _your_ discretion. You are allowed to say no. Being a prostitute does not mean you can’t be sexually assaulted. Being a prostitute does not mean you deserve it or that it’s okay. Sherlock, listen to me, you didn’t want him to touch you, you said _no,_ and he tried it anyway. That is _not okay._ ”  
  
It broke John’s heart to see the cold look in Sherlock’s eyes. He remembered how bright and full of life they used to be in secondary school. All he wanted to do was gather this broken man in his arms and hold him tight. To make him feel – no – to make him _know_ he deserves to be loved.  
  
“Sherlock? Can I ask you something?”  
  
Sherlock looked away and sighed deeply. “I’m finished for the night. If you want to know my rates, I’ll give you my card and you can give me a ring in the morning.”  
  
He pushed to his feet and when he began to walk away, John reached out and grabbed his hand tightly. Sherlock pulled, struggling to gain control of his hand again.  
  
“Stop. Sherlock, stop.”  
  
“It’s fine, John. Really. I’m not offended. You’re an attractive man, more attractive than most of my clientele. Honestly, I’m flattered you’d even consider me as an option. Maybe penetrative sex with you, it wouldn’t –“  
  
John stood up abruptly, pulled Sherlock towards him and spun him around. He raised his index finger and pressed it firmly against Sherlock’s lips.  
  
“Shut up. Jesus. That’s not… no. I wasn’t asking. Not that I wouldn’t. I mean, no. I wouldn’t, I just mean, uhm, I’m bisexual. And would… with you. I just. Wow. This is coming out _all_ wrong.”  
  
“Indeed. It’s certainly fun to see you try, however.”  
  
“Sod off. No, I just remember you had quite an affinity for chemistry. Well, everything actually. Why, er, I guess I’m just curious why you didn’t go into sciences at Uni?”  
  
“In an ironic twist of fate, chemistry is what led me to where I am now.”  
  
“I don’t follow,” John stated, his eyebrows drawing together. “Look, I was heading back to my flat, why don’t you come over for a cuppa and we can talk?”  
  
“I – I can’t. I apologize.”  
  
“Oh… why not?”  
  
“It’s getting late. I should go.”  
  
“Sherlock, damnit, stop trying to run from me. I’m not going to hurt you. I promise.”  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically and huffed. He bit down hard on his tongue until he tasted the faintest hint of blood.  
  
“I am most assuredly not frightened of you, if that’s what you think.”  
  
“Then what’s the problem?”  
  
“Fine. You want to get to know me, John? Find out my deepest, darkest secrets? My inner most vulnerabilities?” Sherlock chuckled sinisterly. “Have it your way. I have to stop somewhere first. Let’s go.”  
  
John smiled triumphantly and finally released Sherlock’s hand, trailing after him.   
  
“Where to?”  
  
“Baker Street.”

 


	4. What Would You Do

John felt a wave of confusion as he peered at the door they were in front of. It was a nice area nestled in Westminster and the building looked well kept, clean, and to be perfectly honest, it looked like it cost a pretty penny. Sherlock slid a key into the lock and let himself in. Cautiously, John followed him over the threshold.   
  
“Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock bellowed.  
  
The door to the main floor flat opened and a petite, older woman stuck her head out. She wore a modest, but chic, purple dress that contrasted beautifully with her hazel eyes. Her lips were painted with deep shade of red but what was really striking about her was the way she looked at Sherlock. Full of fondness and affection – like a mother.  
  
“Sherlock, dear! I wasn’t expecting you quite so early!”  
  
“Change of plans.”  
  
“Who’s this lad, then? Don’t be rude, love, introduce me!”   
  
“Apologies. Mrs. Hudson, this is John Watson. We were in secondary school together and we ran into each other tonight at work.”  
  
“Oh, that’s wonderful! You need more friends.”  
  
“I do not,” Sherlock groaned.  
  
John giggled quietly to himself.  
  
“Well, come in, come in! There are biscuits on the table if you’re hungry. I’ll go gather everything for you, dear.”  
  
“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”   
  
***  
  
Sherlock and John sat in the kitchen, each nibbling on biscuits. Admittedly, it was a little bit awkward. John had no idea what they were doing here, and he longed to be back at his own flat, having a deep conversation with this beautiful man that he adored for some unknown reason.   
  
After about ten minutes, Sherlock smiled warmly, pushed his chair backwards, and stood up. John followed suit almost automatically and turned towards the kitchen entrance. The gasp that escaped his throat was audible and more than slightly embarrassing.  
  
Sherlock strode to the entryway and snickered at the dumbstruck look on John’s face. He promptly took the duffel bag off of Mrs. Hudson’s shoulder and slung it over his own. She gently placed his most prized treasure in his arms and grinned proudly when he thanked her with a kiss to her cheek.  
  
“John?  Would you please come over here?”   
  
All John could do was nod and obey. “Sherlock…?”  
  
“I’d like you to meet my daughter. John Watson, meet Avelana Holmes. Shall I still join you for tea?”  
  
John’s lips curved unintentionally into a wide smile and he gently stroked the back of the baby’s soft hand. His breath caught when she made a gurgling noise and grasped clumsily at his finger. It took a great deal of effort, but John finally tore his eyes away from Avelana and looked up at Sherlock.  
  
“Yes. Please. I’d still like for you to have tea with me.”  
  
Sherlock didn’t let it show, but he felt suddenly discombobulated. He was fully expecting to see brave, strong John Watson scurry away in fear, however, it seems he was pleasantly mistaken.  
  
He nodded at John and proceeded to the door.  
  
“Thanks again, Mrs. Hudson!” he called out.  
  
“You’re welcome, dear!”  
  
After locking each door behind them, they waited on the pavement for a cab. John was enamored, watching Sherlock cooing at his daughter. Without thinking, he shimmied the bag off of Sherlock’s shoulder and hoisted it up on his own.  
  
Sherlock cocked his head and raised an eyebrow, John replied with a small shrug. A car pulled up and he had never been so grateful for a cab in his life.


	5. You Ain't the Only One With a Baby

_I really didn’t think this through,_ John thought. He was in no way excited to show off his rather depressing bedsit. If his pathetic life weren’t enough to make him want to kill himself, this sad excuse for a flat sure as hell would be. Quietly, he trudged down to the end of the hallway, leading the way. When they reached his door, John paused.  
  
“John? What is it, what’s wrong?”  
  
“Nothing, I just… this place is probably not an ideal spot for your daughter. We can go around the corner. There’s an all-night café. It might be, uhm, better suited.”  
  
“Are you questioning a prostitute’s parenting ability?” Sherlock sighed dramatically. “And here I thought you were different.”  
  
John’s eyes widened to a comically large size; like a cartoon character.  
  
“No! Oh my g—no!” John panicked. “Sherlock, no, that’s… that’s not what I meant!”  
  
Sherlock chuckled, which resulted in John becoming extraordinarily confused. The look of bewilderment on John’s pale face was enough to make Sherlock heave with laughter. John was absolutely _baffled_ by this behavior but he found himself smiling, reveling in the deep rumble of Sherlock’s laugh. It was the most glorious thing John had heard in years.  
  
The thing was, it wasn’t even particularly funny. The part that Sherlock found so utterly amusing was that he was participating in a (relatively) normal conversation and that occurred so rarely that he just couldn’t believe it. He felt allowed to openly banter with someone for the first time in ages – no, in his entire life. And he wasn’t being abandoned. There wasn’t money being thrown at him. He wasn’t punished, or scolded, or told to put his mouth to better use.  
  
This was the most normal Sherlock had felt almost his entire life. And it was fucking hilarious to him.  
  
John patiently waited for Sherlock to recover from his laughing fit and when he finally did, he patted John gently on the shoulder before speaking.  
  
“Calm down, John. I’m positive your flat is perfectly adequate for Avelana. All that truly matters is that she’s safe and I am quite confident that in your presence, there is no safer place for her to be.”  
  
“Alright,” John nodded. “Can you, uh, wait here for just a quick second?”  
  
“Oh for heavens sake. We promise not to get in the way while you dismantle and store your illegal firearm. Isn’t that right, Ave?”  
  
Avelana giggled and reached her tiny hands towards John.  
  
“That’s cheating,” whined John.  
  
All Sherlock could do was shrug innocently. John turned to unlock his door and pushed it open, heading straight in. Behind him, he heard Sherlock kiss his daughter and whisper, _“that’s my girl.”_ John rolled his eyes and grinned to himself.  
  
“Er, well, make yourself at home, I guess.”  
  
Unfortunately, there were not many places to make oneself at home in John’s flat. It was a single room, really. A small bed ran along one wall with a night table beside it that also doubled as a desk, and the kitchen lined the opposite. Calling it a kitchen was… generous, to say the least. In reality, there was a shoddy shelf that acted as a countertop, nailed inexpertly to the wall. The stove was dated and if John was being honest with himself, was a death trap. One day, that appliance was going to start a fire – and John would be glad for it. His refrigerator was half the size of a regular one and the freezer seldom if ever did its job.  
  
There was a very small bathroom a couple inches from the foot of the mattress. The room had the standard essentials – a toilet, a small sink, a cracked and dirty mirror, and a shower that wouldn’t fit two adults. Beside the door to the bathroom was the closet. The only thing in it was his gun safe. The few possessions he had were kept in the duffel bag underneath his bed.  
  
John watched Sherlock casually cross over to the bed, noting the absence of judgment, or disapproval. Sherlock carefully maneuvered onto the bed and sat with his back against the wall, his legs crossed loosely in front of him.   
  
“Oh, bugger. Can you come here and help me real quick?”  
  
Clearing his throat, John nodded. “What do you need?”  
  
“Her blanket. I should have grabbed it before I settled down. It’s in her bag.”  
  
John looked around, trying to locate the bag.  
  
“John… you’re still carrying it…”  
  
 “Oh,” he nervously laughed.  
  
The bag was swung with care onto the bed, and John unzipped it, digging around. When his fingers brushed something soft and fluffy, he pulled his hand out of the bag and handed the blanket to Sherlock. It was a pale yellow blanket with small bees covering it. It seemed to John that all the bees were slightly fuzzier than the rest of the material. The small bed Sherlock had created for the baby, his crossed legs acting almost like a crib, admittedly impressed John.  
  
“…Bees? Really? That’s not very girly,” John blurted out.  
  
Sherlock looked up and glared at John.  
  
“Seriously? John, don’t tell me you buy into gender role stereotypes. Just because she has a vagina instead of a penis, she should have pink blankets and dresses with frills on them? She should aspire to be a damsel in distress, perhaps a princess? Oh, you think she should live in a forest and live with seven terrifying dwarves and have delusional conversations with wildlife? Do enlighten me, John.”  
  
“Er, I’m… sorry? It’s just when I was growing up, that’s all Harry ever had,” John shrugged. “She had a trunk full of Barbie’s, you know?”  
  
“And ask yourself this, John – did having dolls and ‘girly’ things as a child make her any less gay?”  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“You heard me. What _difference_ does it make, John? In theory, gender roles exist solely to shove people into the one category that is widely accepted in society. Females grow up with princesses, learning to need a man to take care of them. Males grow up with superheroes, learning that their role is to save an _entire gender_ that is deemed _too weak to save themselves._ We literally come out of the womb and are immediately taught an archaic view of sexuality and gender.”  
  
“Sherlock…”  
  
“No, shut up _._ Just shut up. Biologically, Avelana is a female and that is perfectly fine with me. But I am _not_ going to deny her things she wants or enjoys just because her anatomy suggests she should like certain things. I’m going to allow her to decide for herself instead of choosing for her. That blanket that you don’t think is _appropriate_ for a _baby girl_ is her favourite. I am not going to deny her comfort just because societal norms tell me otherwise. I won't do it."  
  
“Sorry. I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it. Uhm. Right,” he mumbled. “I’ll go make that cuppa now.”  
  
“Black. Two sugars.”  
  
By the time John brought the two cups back to the bed, he could see Avelana was asleep, nestled in her daddy’s lap, her tiny fingers gripping the edge of her blanket.  
  
 _Of course,_ John thought. _Of course she has to side with Sherlock in the most adorable way possible.  
  
_ John climbed up onto the bed and sat beside Sherlock. There was enough room between them for the small, wooden tray holding their tea. John pulled his knees to his chest and picked up his tea, warming his hands on the cup.  
  
“I’m… sorry. About earlier,” John murmured.  
  
“Good. You should be.”  
  
“So. Uhm.”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Where’s your – I mean, where’s Avelana’s mother?”  
  
“Dead.”  
  
“Jesus,” John gasped. “I’m – Christ, I’m so sorry.”  
  
“Don’t be.”  
  
“W-what? Why the _hell_ not? Your wife, or girlfriend, whatever, died, of course I’m going to be sorry about that, you mad bastard.”  
  
Sherlock nearly choked on the hot liquid he’d been sipping.  
  
“ _Girlfriend?_ ” he sputtered. “John, I’m gay. Did you really not gather that upon seeing the string of men I had sexual relations with tonight?”  
  
“That in no way is proof! You were with men and then you brought me to meet your _daughter_! The logical assumption was that you’re bi!”  
  
“…Touché.”  
  
“So, would you like to explain now?”  
  
“If you insist. It’s rather simple. I was a sperm donor.”  
  
“Okay, but earlier you said chemistry is what led you here.”  
  
Sherlock sighed heavily and turned to look at John.  
  
“Fine. Yes, I excelled at Chemistry, to the point where I majored in it in Uni. It was really just going through the motions – I already knew what they were teaching. I got bored. You need to understand, John, that I can’t turn my brain off. When I’m bored, it’s _loud_ and it’s unbearable. I had an acquaintance. Seb and I weren’t really friends but our brains are similar and we were the best chemists so we often experimented outside of class. One day, he came into the laboratory and told me he figured out how to quiet his mind. And he showed me how.”  
  
“Drugs? I saw the scars.”  
  
“Yes. Cocaine, to be specific. We tried meth, but it didn’t have the right high. It was easy enough to manufacture. Seb decided to take up dealing. I decided to continue using. Mycroft – my brother – caught wind of everything. He cut off my funds so I did what I could to make money. It cost too much to make my own, so I ended up buying off the street. I did a lot of medical experiments, selling blood. Hell, there was a point I was clean for long enough that I sold urine to individuals looking to pass drug tests. You’d be amazed at how much substance-free urine sells for.”  
  
“Lovely. So you ended up, uhm, selling your sperm. I’m not an expert but isn’t there generally a confidentiality kind of thing?”  
  
“Yes. You fill out the paperwork, and women looking for donations are able to look through suitable profiles. The woman who chose my file was an interesting lady. Her name was Mary. She was a budding assassin, of all things. She had just started her career. I’m not sure why she picked that moment to have a child.”  
  
“Wait, an _assassin_? How do you even know that?”  
  
“Mycroft occupies a minor part in the British government. I had no idea, but he had kept an eye on Mary throughout her pregnancy. After she had Avelana and was released from the hospital, she got into some trouble. She decided it was safer for Ave if she overdosed, rather than being shot by her boss. She had no relatives, no next of kin. Mycroft texted me her address and when I arrived, she was in the middle of her sitting room, laying on her side, barely breathing.”  
  
“Jesus, Sherlock.”  
  
“She whispered Avelana’s name and slipped me a piece of paper with another address on it, and I left. I’ve been ever clean since.”  
  
John reached for Sherlock’s hand and laced their fingers together, squeezing tightly.  
  
“Why prostitution? If you’re clean now… there are other things you could be doing.”  
  
Sherlock sighed and stared at their joined hands.  
  
“I actively refuse to take part in Mycroft’s drug testing, and therefore he refuses to unlock my bank account. I have other accounts now that he’s completely unaware of so I have the funds to make sure Avelana lives comfortably.”  
  
“Then why, Sherlock? Why would you…?”  
  
“I don’t think Mary is dead. After I left, I texted Mycroft to have him deal with the body and her flat. When his men arrived on scene, she wasn’t there. My brother,” Sherlock spat venomously, “thinks her boss simply got to her first.”  
  
“What makes you think that isn’t true?”  
  
“I see things, John. Things that should be obvious, but other people miss because they’re idiots. I have experienced overdoses, John. There was _nothing_ in that flat conducive to drug use. She was not a habitual user. She faked her death, and I want to bloody know why. And then I want to make sure she doesn’t try to take my daughter from me.”  
  
“I still don’t understand, Sherlock. Why are you sleeping w—“  
  
Sherlock untangled his hand from John’s and held up his palm, indicating that John should stop speaking.  
  
“She worked for the most dangerous criminal mastermind in the _world_. Most law-abiding citizens don’t make it a habit to purchase illegal sexual services, and definitely not from men. A good portion of my clients are criminals. They think I’m a junkie, giving head to pay for my next high. Sometimes, they talk more than they should,” Sherlock shrugged. “And sometimes, they may mysteriously fall unconscious and their possessions may be rifled through or conveniently commandeered.”  
  
“There has to be another way.”  
  
“I have contacts at the Yard. But it’s not enough. It’s just not enough.”  
  
John moved the makeshift tray from between them and scooted closer to Sherlock, pressing his body against him. For some inexplicable reason, John had tears in his eyes, threatening to leak down his face.  
  
“We’re… uhm, friends. Right?”  
  
“I don’t know, I’ve never had one.”  
  
It felt like John’s heart had shattered for the eighteenth time. That night. He instinctively grabbed for Sherlock’s hand again.  
  
“Now you do.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“Why do you want to be friends? I’m an ex-addict who _literally_ sucks cock for information about my daughter’s psychopathic mother who just happens to be a professional assassin.”  
  
John slowly turned his head towards Sherlock, his eyes taking in every inch of Sherlock’s face.  
  
“I’m a perpetually suicidal medical student with an extreme propensity for adrenaline and danger that will likely lead me to the army. We all have our crosses to bear.”  
  
“John, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”  
  
“Did you just quote Casablanca to me?”  
  
“Casa-who?”  
  
John barked out a laugh and Sherlock promptly threw his free hand over John’s mouth, not wanting the baby to be woken. Their hands were intertwined and their faces were inches from each other. John was struck by how comfortable it was, being so close. He breathed in deeply through his nose, memorizing Sherlock’s scent -- baby powder, and chocolate biscuits.  John looked up through his eyelashes at Sherlock, his heart starting to flutter wildly in his chest. With unprecedented confidence, John lifted his own available hand and wrapped his fingers firmly around the other mans wrist, unconsciously rubbing his thumb back and forth across the smooth skin.  
  
Swallowing hard, John gently tugged on Sherlock’s wrist, prompting him to lower his hand. With his mouth now uncovered, John blew out a shaky, slow breath. He released Sherlock’s wrist and reached his hand across, allowing it to settle lightly upon his new friends cheek.  
  
“John…”  
  
“Yes, Sherlock?” John breathed.  
  
“I don’t… I’ve never… nobody has ever wanted just _me._ ”  
  
John leaned in, pressing a firm kiss to Sherlock’s other cheek.  
  
“In a perfect world, everybody would want you. But it’s an imperfect world, Sherlock, and everybody who doesn’t _really_ see you is an idiot.”  
  
Sherlock smiled shyly, feeling the blush creep up his neck and travel to his ears. John gave his nose a feather-light peck and then pulled entirely away by untangling their laced fingers and dropping his hand from Sherlock’s face.  
  
“I don’t… I don’t want to be rude, but it’s half three already…”  
  
“Oh. Right, of course. Just give me a moment to rouse Avelana.”  
  
“No, no, no. It’s okay. I’m not asking you to leave. I was asking you t-to stay.”  
  
Before Sherlock could mutter a reply, or more likely, provide a sarcastic comment, John pulled the neatly made quilt from the foot of his bed and began unfolding it. He scooted a bit down the mattress, his chest instead of his leg nearly touching Sherlock’s thigh.  
  
“Are you going to sleep as well? We can rig the bed for Ave so that she won’t fall, and so we don’t roll over her or anything…I mean, there’s enough room.”  
  
“No. We’re okay like this, but please, go ahead.”  
  
“Sherlock? I, uhm, well, sometimes I have bad dreams. Oh God, that sounds so childish. I just wanted to warn you – I’m not violent or anything, I, uhm, they just normally r—“  
  
“You don’t have explain, John. It’s not as if I’m demon-free, myself.”  
  
Nodding minutely, he tentatively burrowed his head against Sherlock’s side and pushed his chest closer to the warm thigh in front of him. His eyelids began to fall heavily and his breathing quickly became deeper. He hadn’t been aware he was so tired until now.  
  
“John?”  
  
“Mmmm?”  
  
“This is perfect enough for me.”  
  
John fell asleep with a content smile on his face.  
  
And for the first time in months, he slept the whole night through. He was in such a deep, peaceful sleep, that he didn’t feel Sherlock extricate himself and Avelana from his grasps.  
  
John also didn’t hear them leave his flat.


	6. That's No Excuse to be Living All Crazy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'll get around to changing the dates on the iMessage photos because 2001 is really not accurate but I don't have the time or patience right now to go back and fix it because I was silly and didn't save the image as a psd, so, anyway. Suspend your belief and imagine iPhones, iMessage, and texting was popular in 2001 :p

For the next six days, John spent every waking millisecond waiting. He waited for his mobile to ping, even if he had never actually given Sherlock his number. He waited for the sound of knuckles pounding against his door. The sounds he longed for never came, and it was driving him mad – but still, he waited. It took priority over everything. The hours passed as he forwent eating, or sleeping. He indulged in the occasional cup of tea. Or scotch. The fine burn of alcohol in his belly seemed to make the time fly by.  
  
And when that thought entered his mind, the occasional cup of scotch turned into binge drinking. Because flying reminded him of bees. And bees reminded him of Sherlock and Avelana. And thinking of them was _not_ an option. So when he thought of flying, he drank. He drank until he blacked out, until he didn’t remember the reason he was drowning, until he forgot what haunted him.  
  
Those moments of repression never lasted as long as he would have liked.  
  
John was about to pour his second glass three fingers full of liquor when he heard two swift knocks on his door. At first, he thought he was imagining it; he thought he was already too far-gone and it was nothing but wishful thinking, a simple wishful delirium. When the knocks came again, he jumped out of his chair and bounded to the door, nearly tripping over his own feet. He stumbled as he reached for the knob, twisting it almost frantically and ripping the door open.  
  
“Sherlock??”  
  
“Afraid not. Sorry to disappoint.”  
  
John blinked a couple of times, clearing the slight blur in his eyes. The man before him was tall, but a little plump. He wasn’t overweight by any means; he was barely what you’d consider chubby. He was dressed impeccably in a three-piece grey suit, leaning on a remarkably elegant umbrella in his right hand. To be honest, he wasn’t a bad looking bloke, or he hadn’t always been. In fact, the man looked a touch like an older, more worn version of Sherlock.  
  
Oh. _Oh.  
  
_ John lifted his eyebrow cockily, and stood to the side, lifting an arm and gesturing for the man to come in.  
  
“Do come in,” John invited, “Mycroft.”  
  
He couldn’t help the smug look on his face as Mycroft stopped in his tracks and looked back with a glare that could probably bring a nation down to its knees. Mycroft continued deeper into the flat, looking around distastefully. With a sour look on his face, he sunk down gracefully onto one of the poorly made kitchen chairs.  
  
“I see the tornado I refer to as my brother has ripped through your life quite thoroughly. He does tend to have that effect on people.”  
  
Mycroft eyed the half empty bottle of scotch on the table. And the three empty bottles on the makeshift counter.  
  
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he growled.  
  
“Don’t I?”   
  
Mycroft quietly studied his perfectly manicured nails.  
  
“What the _bloody hell_ do you want?”  
  
“Language, John! Goodness. We’re civilized gentlemen.”  
  
“Alright,” John conceded, tilting his head dangerously. “How’s this? _What_ _the_ _buggering fuck do_ _you_ _want?_ ”  
  
Mycroft narrowed his eyes at John, surveying him.  
  
“I want to know where my brother is.”  
  
John laughed and reached for the liquor. He didn’t even bother pouring any into a glass; he simply took a generous swig from the bottle. The tingling it left in its wake was more than pleasant, and he took another gulp.  
  
“Right, well, as do I. When you figure it out, let me know.”  
  
“Are you telling me, Mr. Watson,” Mycroft spoke as he rose from the chair, “that you do not know where Sherlock is?”  
  
“That is precisely what I am telling you. Now, how about you tell me how you lost your own brother, even though from what I know about your so-called minor position in the government, you can track literally anybody you damn well please?”  
  
Mycroft noticeably stiffened.  
  
“You’ve met him. Sherlock is often much too clever for his own good. I apologize for wasting your time. I’m not quite positive why he led me here.”  
  
“W-wait. What do you mean?” John sputtered.  
  
Rolling his eyes exasperatedly, Mycroft pulled his mobile out of his inside breast pocket, unlocked it and wordlessly handed it over. John hesitated for a moment and then snatched the device up before the screen went black again.  
  
He swiped through to the messages, looking blindly for Sherlock’s name. He was confused when he could not find it, and looked up at Mycroft, perplexed.  
  
“W.S.S.H – those are his initials.”  
  
John furrowed his brow and directed his attention back to the message threads, promptly finding the correct one. He tapped the conversation with his thumb and read the short exchange.  
  
   
  
John felt a lump rise in his throat as he reread the time-stamp on the first message.  
  
“I… I ran into him at a house party the night before he texted you. He, uhm, there was an altercation and I intervened and we left.  We went to pick up Avelana and then they came to my flat for tea. He said he’d stay the night so I let myself fall asleep…”  
  
“That’s riveting, John, really.”  
  
“I fell asleep at around half three… I don’t…I woke up and they were gone. He left. I don’t understand why he’d tell you to find me! I don’t _know_ anything!”  
  
“Did he mention anything about A.G.R.A to you?”  
  
“No, nothing! All he really told me is that he thinks Mary is alive.”  
  
Mycroft looked questioningly at John and nodded, deciding to take his word for it. He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a thumb drive, flipping it around in his palm. Slowly, Mycroft extended his arm, his palm facing up. John stepped closer to read the label.  
  
 _A.G.R.A.  
  
_ “What is this?”  
  
“I’ve had my people working around the clock since the first text from Sherlock. This is everything we’ve found that pertains, or could possibly pertain, to the initials.”  
  
“Mycroft… why would she fake her death?”  
  
“Ultimately, she didn’t. The woman Sherlock discovered that night was _not_ Mary. It was a woman named Janine.”  
  
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”  
  
“Mary wanted a child – for reasons currently unknown – but she couldn’t leave her post as Moriarty’s best sniper. Moriarty had his sister, Janine, be the surrogate. They quite cleverly switched identities. Janine is in fact dead. We found the body. Janine had undergone extensive plastic surgery in order to really… transform, let’s say.”  
  
“So, where is the real Mary? And where is Sherlock?”  
  
“Mary has seemingly vanished. As for Sherlock, well, if I knew where he was, I can assure you I would not be here.”  
  
“I don’t know what to say. He left and I don’t know how to find him.”  
  
John felt the light vibration of his mobile in his trouser pocket and he prayed to the powers that be that the elder Holmes brother did not hear the faint _bzzt bzzt._ Somehow, he just knew that it was Sherlock. Really, nobody else would ever bother texting John. He could feel Mycroft’s inquisitive stare burning him from the inside out.  
  
“I’ll be in touch, dear Watson.”  
  
Mycroft swung his umbrella as he strode to the door. He stepped into the building hallway and before closing the door behind him, he pivoted to face John.  
  
“You should really be cautious of your alcohol intake. Your father was your age when he began self-medicating and as I understand it, these problems can be hereditary. Farewell, John.”  
  
John snarled and slammed the door shut with such strength that the frame around it shook. He threw his back against the wall and pulled his mobile out, his heart racing when he confirmed it was indeed Sherlock.

 

 

 


	7. They're Gonna Know About Pain

John spent those ten minutes cleaning himself up. He, unfortunately, didn’t have time for a shower, so he did what he could. He cleaned his teeth, and rinsed his mouth with mouthwash. Twice. He tried to fix his stray stubble, wetting it with water and patting it down. He shed the wrinkled jumper he was wearing in favor for one that was, well, only slightly less rumpled – but it was his favourite and he needed to summon all the confidence he could. After checking his watch, John sighed and took one last look in the mirror.  
  
“I guess it’s time.”  
  
He shuffled out of his bedsit and crossed the dreary hallway, knocking per Sherlock’s instructions. Sherlock didn’t answer, so he repeated the rhythmic knocking. Again, the door didn’t open. John became frustrated and began continuously pounding the pattern.  
  
Groaning, John paused. “You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?”  
  
Finally, Sherlock cracked the door open, peering out at John. His lips quirked up into a sly grin. John rolled his eyes and pushed the door open.  
  
“You’re a right bastard, ya know that?”  
  
“That may be true, but alas, here you are,” Sherlock smirked.  
  
“ _Shut up_ ,” John hissed. “Where the _hell_ have you been?”  
  
“Around.”  
  
“Around _where_ , Sherlock?”  
  
“…Germany.”  
  
“Wünderbar. Is that seriously all you’re going to tell me?”  
  
Sherlock shrugged dispassionately and John replied by straightening his spine and pushing his chest out indignantly. John quirked his head and puckered his lips, his hands clenching into tight fists.   
  
“Fine. Have it your way,” John growled.  
  
He turned on his heel and reached to open the door, studiously ignoring anything Sherlock was saying behind him. The door was halfway open when Sherlock lunged forward, shoving John face-first against the wood, slamming it. Lucky for John, he had pretty quick reflexes and made sure it was his cheek that hit the surface, not his nose – he wasn’t exactly keen on having a nasal fracture.  
  
Unfortunately, his reflexes didn’t help him when Sherlock grabbed John’s left arm and twisted it behind before reaching for John’s right wrist, grasping tightly and pinning it above them against the door. John struggled, his muscles twitching violently. Sherlock hissed at him and leaned forward heavily, pressing his body weight against John’s back.   
  
Agonizingly slow, Sherlock brought his lips to John’s uncovered ear, his nose lightly touching the top. He breathed in deliberately deep, trying to hide his grin at the goose bumps he felt rise on John’s arms.  
  
Sherlock lowered his voice as he spoke directly into John’s ear.  
  
“Stop. Don’t leave,” he whispered. “Please.”  
  
John grunted as he tried to break free from Sherlock’s iron grip again.  
  
“ _John.”_  
  
John stilled and sighed. “I want to stay, but why shouldn’t I go? You’ve given me no reason to stay.”  
  
“I don’t want you putting yourself in danger for me.”  
  
“That’s not your choice to make and you know it.”  
  
Sherlock rested his forehead against John’s shoulder and released his grip, slowly lowering his arms to his sides and eventually stepping back. John shook his arms out and turned around to face Sherlock.  
  
“If you’re positive you want to get involved in this, John, then I will tell you what I know so far.”


End file.
